And Now For the Boys
by TionBlaire
Summary: The true story of the 74th Annual Hunger Games, as told through the eyes of Peeta Mellark. Did he ever love Katniss? Or was that a ploy to get on Cato's good side?


"And now for the boys."

The Capitol woman says. While quite thrilled with her first volunteer as escort of District 12, she saunters over towards the spherical glass bowl holding individual little cards that contain more than just names on them, but a mark of death. The escort, not understanding the somber feeling given towards her, carefully chooses the folded slip of paper that decides someone's fate and reads the name on it in full seriousness, reflecting the feeling of her audience.

"Peeta Mellark."

I freeze. I freeze and I stay that way: frozen, not in time, but out of fear. I don't let a tear fall. I swallow. And only then do I realize that there has been a hole in the crowd created around me, one out of pity, and perhaps sympathy. I stand alone, eyes on me. It's as if the Games have already begun.

I walk, one foot in front of the other, towards the cement stage set up in the middle of the Town Square, realizing my fate every step of the way. And as I get to the landing of the stairs with the-_my _escort standing at the top, ushering me to the top, the fear sets in again, and again I gulp. My eyes go wide as I get to the top of the stairs and face the audience; I didn't even realize I had made those few steps up the stairs towards my own death.

I stare ahead, not into the audience, but the skyline? The train cars filled with coal? Anything that isn't another set of eyes, ones that will reflect even more what everyone else is feeling: hatred for the Capitol and pity. These things are already in my eyes, there is no point in finding them in others. Not now. Now I realize why tributes rarely wish to look at us as we say goodbye.

As soon as I come to this realization, my attention is brought to the hand on my elbow, drawing me to my left and I look down seeing that me and my partner, and opponent, are supposed to shake hands: swear towards an honest and good fight to death, one that will bring one of us glory.

If either of us is going to be a winner of glory it would be her. Katniss can hunt. She's good with a bow. She can find food and water and shelter. I'm incapable of anything like that; I'm a baker. The only thing I can _probably_ do is disguise myself. Camouflage has worked in the arena, especially at dusk, and I can make sure it looks real because I decorate the cakes and other treats at the bakery. Hopefully that isn't all I'm capable of doing, because if it is then I need to hide this from Katniss. I don't want to die.

Again I have blanked out, and I am pushed into a room by Peacekeepers. I hit the ground, barely able to catch myself with my hands so that I wouldn't land flat on my face. I make a mental note to pay attention more as I look around the room. It's poorly lit, the only light coming through the blinds on the windows, and has carved, ornate walls made out of a dark wood that I can't name. I pick myself up, dust off my knees, then stomach out of habit, and walk over to the blinds. I begin to open them and hear the door open behind me, and I close them again.

Turning around I see my father and mother standing there awkwardly, only one with tears in their eyes. My father walks over to me, more like canters over to me, and wraps me up in a tight hug, squeezing out of love and out of loss. I return the hug with less fervor than my father gives, silently praying that squeezing back will lighten up the pressure and allow me to breath. I don't cry though.

"Peeta, I'm so sorry. I love you, son" my dad whispers to me, tears beginning to escape from the wells he has been storing them in. While I'm irritated about the apology, I let it go. He's my dad and I'm his son and I'm going off to the Games.

"I love you, too" I say back to him, releasing my arms in hopes that he'll do the same. He does. I turn my gaze towards my mother, who has still yet to shed a tear. "I love you, too, Mom."

Her resolve doesn't change, but she utters back a simple "I love you," and gets straight to the point. With my mother there is always a point-from there she can beat it until it's rounded again. "For the first time, I think District 12 is going to have a winner," she says.

I'm confused. I'm looking at her and I see almost a tiny glint of something, which I can only hope is regret, before the door is opened again and the Peacekeepers are informing my parents that their time to say goodbye is up. I'm left to sit in that room for the rest of the hour. No one comes to visit me, so I take a seat in one of the soft armchairs in the room.

The chairs are a green that remind me of the trees we see from the window of the bakery, the trees that are outside of the District limits. They are also velvet. I love velvet. Growing up, whenever I had a nightmare my father would give me a pillow-a velvet pillow-to hold on to as I returned to sleep. It made everything feel better; it made my dreams happy; all silly, little things coming from a pillow. But I still loved it. I cherished it up until my mother burned it for me burning the bread when I was younger. It was good bread, bread that would be sold to the mayor, but it got burned, and so did my pillow. Going into the Games, I need a pillow-something to make the nightmares stay at bay, keep me feeling safe. I don't know what that is going to be, but I want one now.

I mull over where I can get a new and symbolic pillow for awhile, but I don't know how long. This room doesn't have a clock in it; everything was just planned out for you, just like in the Games. And so I sat with my thoughts. Not like anything else has really happened today. I thought of Katniss for a time, and my escort, especially her accent and time-honored phrase _"May the odds be ever in your favor"_. The odds definitely were not in my favor, not with Katniss being one of the tributes. That is what my mother meant about the possibility of District 12 having a winner this year.

I begin to get angry, not so much at the Capitol but at my mother who doesn't think I can win, who thinks I am going to die. Death at the hands of Katniss. I resent them both.

The door knob begins to turn again and I stop myself from throwing a fit like a child, that won't help me win the Games and prove my mother wrong, but I may have a visitor. I look up from the chair I have been sitting in for I don't know how long. Instead of seeing a pair of eyes filled with sorrow and pity I see a stern gaze from a Peacekeeper and I realize that the hour we tributes have been given is up. I stand from my chair, move around my toes which have fallen asleep from disuse this past hour, and begin to take the steps out of the room.

I follow the man to the lobby of the building, meeting up with Katniss along the way, and together we meet our escort. "Hello, my name is Effie Trinket. I am your escort for the 74th Annual Hunger Games," she begins to say in her Capitol accent. I almost cringe but stop myself, but out of the corner of my eyes I see Katniss roll her 's. Effie turns her gaze onto Katniss and berates her for her supposed lack of etiquette. "Young lady, rolling your eyes…" and that is where I begin to tune my escort out.

Her accent I would relate to the jabbering of a squirrel or other rodent that we rarely see within district bounds but often buy from Katniss and her friend, Gale. Those squirrels were good-Gale was better.

That get's my mind going and filtering through the many times I have seen and interacted with the hunter. It's safe to say that I have a measly little crush on Gale, not out loud of course. I'm pretty sure him and Katniss are a thing and even if they aren't then that would require me opening up to people about my sexuality. No one knows I'm gay, and when I say no one, I mean no one. I avoid all conversations that could even go down that route and I catch myself before I stare at anyone-and when I say anyone, I mean Gale-for too long. That combined with the fact that I prefer to keep in my head just makes people think I'm thinking to myself, and I have the bruises to prove it. Whenever I mess up at the bakery I am reprimanded by my mother and I always mess up because I'm not paying close enough attention.

Now that I think about it I realize that that is a constant theme in my life that I should probably work on, especially now that I'm a tribute in the Hunger Games. I bring myself back to reality as we walk up to the train station and Effie is motioning for us to go in first, or at least that's what I assume she is saying. I'm still tuning her out and that won't stop. Squirrels sound more normal than Effie.

I climb the stairs of the metallic train hovering off of the ground into an alcove. I'm pressed right behind Katniss and in front of Effie, who, instead of bending her knees to find what I can only hope is a light switch, bends herself at the waist and pulls on a lever closing the door to District 12. I turn around to see light shining through the newly accessed room.

In it there are plates and plates of food, mostly pastries, that are dined along a large table made of the same wood as the walls from the visiting room. Above it hangs a glass chandelier that adds to the elegance of the table and the walls and the amount of glassware dotted around the room, littered carefully one might say. I simply stand there with my mouth agape; I had never seen something so…decorated.

"Excuse me, dear?" I hear and then register a light tapping on my shoulder. I cock my head to see Effie for a second then turn back around to gawk at the sight in front of me. "Peeta, dear, can you please move? I'd like to step into the dining car."

Realizing my mistake I step into the room and off to the side, uttering a simple apology. Effie walks into the room and over to the table and begins talking. Out of embarrassment, I listen as she pours herself a cup of what I can only assume is tea "Now, now, children sit down. Would either of you care for a cup of tea?" While I was right, I shake my head no along with Katniss. We wait until Effie sits down and begins to speak again before we loosen up, even just a little bit. "What do you think of the train? Peeta, I saw that you were quite taken with it, weren't you?"

I think to nod, but quickly realize that I need to play more than just the polite card. "I was Mr. Fleckerman. Now tell me, have you seen mine and Katniss' escort? She wandered over to that large table adorned with many treats and has yet to make a return," I say, fully in character. Effie giggles, whether I make her blush or not is unknown to me because of the thick powdery makeup that appears to be caked on her face.

"Well, Peeta, I assure you she will be back very soon."

"I hope so; it's always a joy to see her!" I say, glad to see that Effie has a sense of humor. Katniss just rolls her eyes again and is berated again by Effie for it, commenting on how a young lady should never role her eyes. Katniss just sits there, trying to appear apologetic, and it somehow appeases Effie who goes back to the topic of trains.

"Two hundred miles per hour and you can barely feel a thing," she begins. Katniss still just sits there and Effie continues on, "I think it's one of the wonderful things about this opportunity: even though you're here and even though it's just for a little while, you get to enjoy all of this." Katniss sits there un-amused, and I too am beginning to be disinterested in this conversation.

Effie gets up from her seat, patting down any visible wrinkles on her skirt from sitting and announces "I'm going to find Haymitch. He's probably in the bar car." She quickly scurries behind us, back through the alcove, and opens a door. I don't turn around but when I hear a metal door click shut I know that Katniss and I are alone.

I realize that this is the first time that we've been alone together since we were reaped. Taking a note from the etiquette I've learned just from being around Effie so far, I attempt to make small talk. "Have you ever met him?" Katniss just looks ahead, ignoring me, I think, "Haymitch?" I clarify.

At this point I'm getting frustrated. She won't even acknowledge me, let alone answer what I'm saying. "You know, Katniss, he is out mentor… He did win this thing once." And still there is no response from her, not even a glance in my general direction_. Looking left is no harder than looking ahead, especially when something more interesting than the cushion Effie was just sitting on is to your left!_ _Breathe_ I tell myself. I swallow. "Look, if you don't want to talk I understand, but I don't think there's anything wrong with getting a little bit of help." And finally she looks at me.

I don't know what it is I see in her eyes. I can't make out the emotion. I look back ahead and out of the corner of my eye I see that she does too. A door in front of me-in front of us-opens to show Haymitch. He walks in, straight blonde hair covering his gaze, cradling a glass in one hand and, for a few seconds, his head in his other and says, quite sarcastically, "Congratulations," while nodding his head. Only then do I realize how much of a mess he is with dirt covering the right hand side of his face, even some of his clothes, and I can't help but feel he took a spill in the dirt. I guess I can ask him about that later.

Haymitch walks over to a small circular table adorned with many glass bottles, grabs one with his right hand, takes the top off with his left hand, and pour the bottle in his right hand hastily yet lazily into the glass in his left. Some of the drink, which I can only guess is liquor by the way he is cradling it, spills onto his vest, thereby dirtying his left side in addition to his right. He doesn't notice. I had forgotten the intricacies of a drunk; while quite amusing, they are filthy, and that pertains to the intricacies and the drunks themselves. Now I'm reminded of why my father always had me work in the back whenever Haymitch came into the bakery, which was only once every few months.

I'm brought out of my thoughts when Haymitch asks us something. In truth, I don't really know what it is that he asks so I answer with a response that could work for any question if you argue it enough: "I don't know."

Haymitch slams down a lid that I hadn't realized he was holding and only then do I realize he was asking where something was. What that is…I don't really know. He grabs at a bottle, swinging his arm about in a tipsy manner and only then do I truly remember the interactions between my father and Haymitch. Nevertheless, we needed to get to work.

As soon as Haymitch sits down in the chair once preoccupied by Effie I try to lay into him with all the thoughts that have been percolating in my head for the past 2 hours-well, all the ones that I _think_ he can answer, because I don't think he can answer any questions about a _new_ special, velvet pillow- and I say, "Okay, so uh…so, when do we start?"

"Woah, woah….so eager? Most of you aren't in such a…hurry."

"Yeah, I wanna know what the plan is," I let my proper speech fade away. Grammar won't mean anything here, "You're our mentor, you-"

"Mentor?" He asks, closing his eyes, bending down into his stomach and stretching as if he had just woken up when in actuality he is struggling to remain sober enough to speak.

"Yeah. Our mentor, you're supposed to tell us how to get sponsors and give us advice."

"Oh okay," he says and I mentally sigh out of relief that my frustrations might get to die down. "Umm…embrace the probability of your eminent death and know, in your heart, there's nothing I can do to save you." I kick myself for thinking that he was going to actually give us advice. I make a mental note to despise Haymitch and the plan is already in effect. In short, Haymitch is a bastard.

"Why are you here then?" Katniss says, finally speaking. I wonder if these are the first words she has said since she volunteered.

"Heh-the refreshments." Haymitch says, swishing around the liquor in his cup. It's like a giant child playing with their food, except this child is an alcoholic in charge of my life.

Frustrated, I make a grab for his drink. "Okay, I think that's enou-" and I'm silenced with a gentle, yet firm, kick to the chest by Haymitch. A shoeless kick to the chest, might I add. I only hope that his feet are clean. If I win, I don't want my reaping clothes to be brought back to my house with a large and greasy footprint on them.

"You made me spill my drink," he announces, glaring at me, foot still on my pale blue shirt. "Brand new pants," he continues, and I'm shocked that he even cares, "You know, I think I'll go finish this in my room." He gets up after having removed his pestilent foot from my torso, spins around trying to find the direction he wants to go, and makes a bee-line for the door he came in.

Even though I can't stand being around him, I realize that I need him in order for me to win these Games. I want to go home; more specifically I want to go home alive. And Haymitch is the only one that is going to be able to get me sponsors. I might as well lay on the charm. I get up, ignoring my common sense, which is sounding particularly like my father right now, and follow after him. "He's gonna come around," I say to myself more than to anyone else.

Katniss, thinking I was talking to her, responds: "Wh-It's no use."

"I'm going to go talk to him."

I follow Haymitch to his room, grabbing at his arm a few times to get him to turn around and to allow me to apologize, even though I had no idea what I actually did wrong. He gets through his door before I can and shuts it, locking it from the inside I assume. He probably is just perched against it, hoping that holding the door up will keep me out while also holding himself up. Drunks are pitiful.

Seeing no use in talking to him, especially in his _current state_, I decide to walk throughout the cars of the train-which I know is going 200 miles per hour, thanks to Effie-in search of my own room. I search. And search. And search, all to no avail. Truthfully, geography has always been a horrific subject for me, although I guess that doesn't really apply to new surroundings. Nevertheless I keep up my search, only to think of the perfect way of finding it: the use of Avoxes.

I do not support the Capitol punishment of cutting out one's tongue before forcing said person into submission through slavery. It is a disgusting practice, reminding me all too much of my mother (who would prefer us to work than to speak); however, in situations like this, an Avox was helpful.

Avoxes have been walking up and down the corridors of these cars-which are actually much more spacious than one would normally assume-and could probably be tracked down simply by standing. Not wishing to be known as lazy, even among a population that could not speak, I go in search of one.

I find an Avox with red hair tied back in two buns with a tad bit of frizz coming off of the assumed ends and ask her, "Can you direct me to my room?" She simply nods and motions for me to follow after her. Even though we are supposed to give demands to Avoxes I couldn't help but ask her. Demands are of the ignorantly powerful and powerfully ignorant, at least in my eyes. And my eyes are a lot better than those of the Capitol, in mine and most of the Districts' books.

We go back two cars and the Avox directs me to the door that is supposed to be my room. I blush out of embarrassment for having already walked past it and thank her…the uncustomary act of a citizen of Panem: thanking an Avox.

I open the door, step in, and close it behind me. I reach out with my right hand for the light switch and turn it on. The room, my bedroom, is decorated much like the rest of the train: extravagant. However, this room feels a lot more dumbed down than the cars and rooms that I have already seen. "Home, sweet, home," I mutter to myself, welcoming the silence that is returned. Looking back I realize that my favorite part of the day was sitting in that visiting room by myself. It was quiet. I was left alone with my thoughts.

And then out of nowhere, I yawn. I check the clock, and it's the end of the afternoon. Quite frankly, I'm tired. I walk over to the bed while unbuttoning my shirt and prepare to slip in when I catch the sight of myself in the mirror; I had forgotten that my hair had been gelled back for the Reaping. Sighing, I walk over to what I hope is the bathroom door, push it open and walk in. I don't bother closing it because it's my room. I also have no problem with my body or nudity so who cares?

I slip off my shoes and, while unhooking my belt, I look around for a towel so that I can dry myself off after the shower. I locate many, all incredibly soft as I feel them, and then begin unbuttoning my pants. I unzip them and let them drop. Stepping out of my pants, I also begin taking off my briefs. I prefer not having legs attached to my underwear, it keeps _important things_ from flopping around-and by important things I mean my dick. I never personally understood the idea that briefs constrained your dick; really, it just held it in place. _Briefs are the good form of a ball and chain_, I think to myself and begin to chuckle at my own joke before I step into the shower.

Another thing, I never understood why bathing is a great time to get yourself off. Then again we only had baths in District 12, and even then those were rare. I contemplate trying it out in the shower but decide against it seeing as how I am already tired. So instead I finish my shower, dry off with one of the many towels left in the bathroom, and pick up the clothes I have left scattered around the entirety of my quarters. I slip on my briefs and my button-up, which remains un-buttoned, and then get into bed. _Button-up is only so it looks like I have some clothes on_, I think to myself and again chuckle.

Sighing, I flick the switch that is near my bed, flip over onto my stomach, cuddle against the pillow that is provided, and close my eyes. _I really want that velvet pillow back_, I think before I turn my head to the left and breathe in and breathe out. I lull myself to sleep with devious thoughts of Gale.


End file.
